Saturday, April 30, 2011

Bloodfetish is a collection of works that I commissioned some 10 years ago, with the help of my good friend, Alice Dark. She and I have collaborated over the years on many projects, though most of those projects involved poetry.

Bloodfetish was an idea of mine, and she was game to work with me to find young authors who wanted to be published. We paid for the work that they did, commissioned an artist to illustrate the stories, then ... well ... It all just fell by the wayside.

It wasn't that we didn't want to put the work out. Rather, it was that life got in the way of our attempts to publish the zine.

It's been on my computer ever since.

Then, a few days ago, I got a call from Alice. She saw my poems and short stories on Smashwords, and asked me about the site. When she found out how easy it was to publish a work, Alice was pissed. (She's not known as Dark Alice for nothing.)

She wanted to know "Why the fuck I hadn't put Bloodfetish" online with all of the other work. "Just get the fucking work out there."

The conversation went on longer than that, but the gist of it is that she just wanted the stories to see the light of day, instead of being caught up as magnetized bits on my hard drive.

So Bloodfetish is online. Read and enjoy. And since Alice demanded that the story be put on her Smashwords site, you'll likely be hearing more from her.

I have to quit screwing around and make some shit up. I've got writing to do. Lots of it. One short story - Divine Wine - is about halfway finished. And I had ideas for three more stories last night. It's going to be a delicious day. I can almost taste it.

But first I need some coffee. Lots of it. I need to wake up, and shake off the doldrums. My daughters are still asleep. This is my time.

One other thing. I managed to sort out Amazon, and I uploaded Jesus Wept to the Kindle site. This story is not for the kiddies. It's vicious, blasphemous and outright erotic. It's the story of a vampire who seeks out Jesus and finds him on the cross. What happens next ... Well, that's not for the open Internet. Too naughty.

Before I leave, I'll give you this writing tip: Incorporate reality with fiction, but never tell them where you really buried the bodies.

Friday, April 29, 2011

Okay. The nice folks call it erotica, but between you and I, we know it's porn. And after reading Carl's post to the Smashwords forum, I'm wondering why I don't write a bit of "erotica" myself. I mean, $2,500 a month is a lot of spare spending cash that would go a long way in today's tight times. I could get me that new corset I was looking at.

Carl's churned out about 90 stories, most of them short, and a few novel length. He has them on both Smashwords and Amazon, so we're looking at the dollars above as combined between these two e-publishers.

It's easy to publish at either of these sites. I've got Jesus Wept on Smashwords, and spent about 15 minutes registering for a Kindle account on Amazon yesterday. The story should go live sometime today or tomorrow. But while Jesus Wept is violent, sacrilegious porn, it's not the kind of erotica that Carl's turned out.

His is ... well ... less violent.

His monthly earnings make me want to venture into the porn market, but to be honest, I can't. Written porn bores me. I tried to read one of his free downloads, and I got through about the first 10 pages before I began to skim. The writing wasn't terrible. The grammar and punctuation weren't great, but they didn't suck out loud. The plots and characters were thin, but not invisible.

So why couldn't I read it? Like I said: Written porn bores me. That's why I stopped following Laurell K. Hamilton's Anita Blake novels. When Anita began fucking everybody, everywhere - having threesomes and moresomes, I found myself skipping large portions of the novel. Not that it embarrassed me. I've had moresomes myself - and things lots kinkier than I've seen in print.

But the bottom line, once again, is written porn bores the shit out of me. And if it's boring to read, imagine trying to write a meaningful sex scene every three to four pages. I just can't manage that, even if I throw in some bondage and domination. It's just not in me to write it down.

Unless, of course, it's truly violent - ala Jesus Wept. If I could crank out a few of those ... I do have another violent sex story in the works: Divine Wine. I hope to finish it this weekend.

Thousands of people across the country are running on empty when it comes to filling their kitchen cupboards. This week, runners from the Fredericksburg Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints will pace out five kilometers to help ensure that those cupboards are no longer bare.

Registrants for the Third Annual Fredericksburg Family Fun 5k Race, sponsored by the church, are asked to donate food the Fredericksburg Area Food Bank in lieu of the traditional fee.

Registration for the race begins at 6 a.m. on Saturday May 21, 2011. The race begins at 7 a.m. the same day.

Currently located at 3631 Lee Hill Dr in the Lee Hill Industrial Park, the Fredericksburg Area Food Bank's warehouse contains 30,000 square feet of dry storage space and 8,000 cubic feet of freezer and cooler space. Due to the size of the warehouse and the affiliation with Feeding America the amount and variety of food and other grocery products available at the Food Bank increased tremendously.

In 2008, the Fredericksburg Area Food Bank distributed more than 3 million pounds of food and other grocery products.

During 2010 the Fredericksburg Area Food Bank and 78 partner agencies distributed over 3.2 million pounds, helping to provide over 2.5 million meals to those in need within our community, continuing to reach for their vision of a Hunger Free Community.

I had a good morning today, about 400 words in the short story. Too explicit to post here, but I can say that it involves raping a corpse.

Yeah. Vile stuff. But if you're going to set up a character to be killed, you have to give the reader a reason for her to want the little bastard dead. Otherwise, all you've got is a Star Trek red shirt. Cannon fodder, with no reason to die other than her clothes.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

This is coming along much better, though I'm running out of steam on the trailing paragraphs. Too much tell. Not enough show. But it's getting there ... one word at a time.

A hard rain pounds Atlantic City as I stand under a rusted metal awning and wait for the evil little fucker to make his nightly visit to the screamo bar across the street. It's too early in the evening for his arrival, so I take the time to scan the streets for other potential meat scrambling through the city. My thigh-length black leather jacket is zipped to my neck. I keep my eyes low and face averted so humans don't see my face – porcelain white and pale as a scream – my black hair loose around my shoulders.

The rain is relentless, and it lashes both the streets and the crowds of nightlife seeking shelter and a euphoric release from their lives. Atlantic City doesn't have quiet nights. Gamblers and hookers, tourists and punks: they all flood the streets at night, looking for a score. A quick fuck. A needle. A bag of cash, or a sucker. The streets of AC are garish with graffitied walls and casino neon flashing come-hither messages like fuck-me dolls. Huddled under umbrellas, the passing crowds are as mushrooms scurrying into casinos, pawn shops, strip clubs, bars and restaurants.

Some of the steady stream of passersby keep to the streets and sidewalks instead of ducking into a building, as the night is steamy with the day's leftover heat, despite the rain. I don't give a fuck about the weather one way or the other. Dead flesh doesn't suffer the elements.

I love Atlantic City, and I've hunted here off and on throughout much of the last six decades. The city has a low profile, because crimes that would be national news anywhere else are kept off the media's radar by sleazy politicians greasing palms with cash, drugs or prostitutes – sometimes a combination of all three. Those same politicians talk about the rebirth of the city and the changes made possible by gambling and the wealthy Middle Eastern and Asian tourists. But what the politicians really do is jam as much cash into their pockets as fast as they can, fucking over the island neighborhoods and screaming poor-mouth when the actual decline of the city does make the news.

In the light of day, Atlantic City looks like a war zone. Not that I venture into sunlight, but my current lair is in just one of a dozen abandoned buildings that blight the south side of the island city.

At night, Atlantic City's glitzy exterior of neon and multi-billion dollar casinos masks the grime that lies just below the surface. Mobsters and slavers made the city their home long before gambling was legalized in the 1970s. Indeed, slavers continue to use the city as a port of call for the sale of under-aged boys and girls.

Just beyond the neon lights and casinos is Atlantic City's famous Boardwalk, where whores, drug addicts and schizophrenics live under the planks, fighting and fucking beneath the feet of tourists and teenagers. Occasionally a body turns up. But most times the city's population of ghouls take care of the corpse before anyone notices the stench.

Ghouls are necessary to a city like this one. Smarter than zombies and more efficient than werewolves.

But the best part of Atlantic City is the number of disposable teens that stalk the night streets with sneers and baggy pants. The former is a result of the bravado of perceived invulnerability. The latter slows the little shits to a pants-yanking shamble. Many of Atlantic City's youth are cheap, wanna-be gangsters who know fuck-all about real life and death. They're the kind of punks who brag about guns and murder and their plans to one day move to the Big City, where they'll be players, with plenty of whores and drugs in easy reach. These little thugs beat and rob tourists, rape girls and boys in back alleys, and fight endlessly over perceived territory violations.

They are the kind of scum that the police would just as soon quietly disappeared.

And I'm the vampire for that particular task.

There's an uneasy truce across the nation between the authorities and vampires. We're an open secret in most police departments and military installations. A necessary evil, some say. Extra soldiers to combat the scum in the general population. So long as we're careful about who we devour, vampires are not harassed.

I eat people who won't be missed, folks that no one really gives a shit about. Atlantic City has plenty of humans that meet that criteria. The city is a shoal for bottom feeders and shit-pickers. Penniless hustlers are everywhere, and I could live here forever on just a few square blocks of humanity.

But I don't, and it's because I take care in finding the perfect meal. Like most vampires, I'm selective about who and what I eat, yet that has to do more with flavor than worries about discovery.

I don't typically take the flotsam of Atlantic City – the schizophrenics, homeless, or prostitutes. Don't get me wrong. I'll drag a bag lady off her shopping cart and suck her dry in a heartbeat, if that's what it takes to get me through the night. But that's not my normal style. I tell myself that the homeless and whores are probably tough and gamey, but the truth is that even though they're humans that would be easily missed and forgotten, bums and hookers are just too innocent to have any real spice.

The cops wouldn't mind at all if I took a few schizos off the street, or waylaid a drug-addled prostitute. But there's more than blood to a meal, and I'm not talking about fucking.

A hard rain pounded Atlantic City as I stood under a rusted metal awning and waited for the evil little fucker to make his nightly visit to the screamo bar across the street. Relentless and unforgiving, the rain lashed both the city streets and the crowds of nightlife seeking shelter and a euphoric release from their lives. Atlantic City didn't have quiet nights. Gamblers and hookers, tourists and punks: they all flooded the streets at night, looking for some kind of score. A quick fuck. A needle. A bag of cash, or a sucker. The streets of AC were garish with graffitied walls and casino neon flashing its come-hither message like a fuck-me doll. Huddled under umbrellas, the passing crowds were as mushrooms scurrying into casinos, pawn shops, strip clubs, bars and restaurants.

Some of the steady stream of passersby stayed on the streets and sidewalks as the night was hot, despite the rain. I didn't give a fuck one way or the other. Dead flesh doesn't suffer under the elements.

I love Atlantic City, and I've hunted here off and on through much of the last six decades. The city has a low profile, because crimes that would be national news anywhere else are kept off the media's radar by sleazy politicians greasing palms with cash, drugs or prostitutes - sometimes a combination of all three. Those same politicians talk about the rebirth of the city and the changes made possible by gambling and the wealthy Middle Eastern and Asian tourists. But what the politicians really do is jam as much cash into their pockets as fast as they can, fucking over the populace and screaming poor-mouth when the actual decline of the city does make the news.

In the light of day, the Atlantic City looks like a war zone. Not that I would venture into sunlight, but my lair is in just one of a dozen abandoned buildings that blight the south side of the island city.

At night, Atlantic City's glitzy exterior of neon and multi-billion dollar casinos masks the grime that lies just below the surface. Mobsters and slavers made the city their home long before gambling was legalized in the 1970s. Indeed, slavers established a firm grip in the early 1800s and continue to use the city as a port of call for the sale of under-aged boys and girls.

Just beyond the lights and through the casinos is Atlantic City's famous Boardwalk, where whores, drug addicts and schizophrenics live under the planks, fighting and fucking beneath the feet of tourists and teenagers. Occasionally a body turns up. But most times the city's ghoul population takes care of the corpse before anyone notices the stench.

Ghouls are necessary to a city like this one. Smarter than zombies and more efficient than werewolves.

But the best part of Atlantic City was the number of disposable teens that stalked the night streets with sneers and baggy pants. The former was an indication of perceived invulnerability. The latter slowed them to a pants-yanking shamble. Many of Atlantic City's youth were cheap, wanna-be gangsters who knew fuck-all about real life and death. They were the kind of punks who bragged about guns and murder and their plans to one day move to the Big City, where they would be players, with plenty of whores and drugs in easy reach. These little thugs beat and robbed tourists, raped girls and boys in back alleys, and fought endlessly over perceived territory violations.

They were the kind of shit-ass punks that the police would sooner quietly disappeared.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

A hard rain pounded Atlantic City as I stood under a rusted metal awning and waited for my prey to make his nightly visit to the screamo bar across the street. Relentless and unforgiving, the rain lashed both the city streets and the crowds of nightlife seeking shelter and a euphoric release from their lives. Atlantic City didn't have quiet nights. Gamblers and hookers, tourists and punks: they all flooded the streets at night, looking for some kind of score. A quick fuck. A needle. A bag of cash, or a sucker. The streets of AC were garish with graffitied walls and casino neon flashing its come-hither message like a fuck-me doll. Huddled under umbrellas, the passing crowds were mushrooms scurrying into casinos, pawn shops, strip clubs, bars and theaters.

When I was a kid I loved the classic vampire stories. As I grew up the stories changed until these days, they’re all about eternal love and how best to woo the heart of a teenage goth chick. Or, as Diana Trees puts it, they’re sparkly. In short, I have come to hate the vampire novel with a passion that rivals the depths of the emo self-pity felt by the average character in said books.

With that said, I happened across Diana Trees on Twitter and was immediately taken by the blurb on her account: “Vampires do not sparkle. They eat people.” How could I not dig deeper after reading that?! And so I did – for $.99 it was worth taking the risk.

I’ll admit I wasn’t sure right off the bat. The story felt a little odd at first, but not in a bad way. It had a nice flow to it and other than 1 or 2 exceptionally minor typos near the end of it, I was very satisfied with the mechanics of it. Sadly that is a rare thing in most interdependently published books, I’m sure even a few syntactical errors exist in some of my own books and those went through a publishing company.

The only problem I had with the book, if you can call it a problem, is how difficult it was for me to establish a rapport with the main character. After all, the main character is a vampire in a more traditional sense. She thinks and feels but she doesn’t pine away for some long lost love who has just been reborn into his or her great great great grandson’s body. The main character feels alien and vicious – and rightly so. Near the end I saw a bigger glimpse into her personal life that opened her up some. It was a good thing that showed character development. It made her feel a little more human without reducing her to glitter and sparkles.

Loved the introduction of some other supernatural beings without reducing it to the same old vampire vs. werewolf crap too. A fine job, Ms. Trees!

But there will be blood – and lots of it. Divine Wine does not lack in the blood and gore fest. I even contacted the author to mention I enjoyed her extremely gory book and she told me she appreciated the feedback and assured me I wasn’t to worry, the next one she’s working on has even more violence. Tuck the kids to bed and read it with the lights on and the doors locked!

It’s a novella and something I finished in a few minutes while waiting for the babysitter to arrive. Get it on Kindle or Nook – I recommend it for anyone who wants to spit in the face of the current trend in undead romanticism!

The paranormal erotica and romance genres have bloomed in recent years, and as anyone will tell you, much of the fare offered up is... well, pretty bland. The werewolves are emo, the vampires sparkle, everyone has flowing tresses and wears a lot of lace. Then comes along Diana Trees with 'Divine Wine', and - joy of joys! - the genre is as it should be. 'This little book is a racy, edgy, gritty grindhouse story, packed with intriguing characters and sexy monsters.

'Divine Wine' a short, sweet and gruesomely entertaining novella depicting the twisted tale of two predators - one human, and one not. The pair engage in a game of cat and mouse around the grimy docklands of New Jersey, culminating in violent confrontations with gang-bangers, innocent bystanders, and a pair of (strangely adorable) bonded ghouls.

I'm not usually a 'vampire person', but I was caught by the vivid depiction of Atlantic City at its seediest, and was helplessly drawn into the story by its atmosphere alone. Diana Trees has excellent pacing and style that makes for a thrilling read, never giving too much away about the characters or the outcome of the book. While possibly too dark for some, its not dark enough to be inaccessible, and if you're after visceral sensuality - the kind found in 'Silence of the Lambs' and 'American Psycho' - you'll probably get a kick out of 'Divine Wine'.

“Divine Wine” by Diana Trees is a fun story for readers that can handle the anti-hero concept with violence taken so far it becomes comical. The lead character seeks out violent criminals and places them in a nightmarish situation with every bit of inhumanity, brutality, and beyond what they gave to their victims. This “Evil meets Evil-er” story, not for the faint of heart, gets the reader laughing as the outrageous creatures have their own agenda outside of human society and are more than happy to bring in new criminals to satisfy their need for entertainment. Congratulations, four stars!